


this is your wake-up call

by novembersmith



Category: Ender's Game, Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 00:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novembersmith/pseuds/novembersmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Person, I have to admit, I’m having trouble following your logic. What, exactly, do you think me hitting you with the butt of my gun will accomplish?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is your wake-up call

**Author's Note:**

  * For [syllic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/syllic/gifts).



> This is an fusion with Orson Scott Card’s Ender’s Game, but hopefully is still understandable to those unfamiliar with the canon. If not, the Wikipedia page should clear things up. Probably it goes without saying, but there are spoilers at the wiki page, and also oblique spoilers within the story. As far as warnings go, there's is an off-screen secondary character death, other assorted acts of violence, and filthy language within. Also, I’ve aged everyone up from the canon a bit.
> 
> I cannot thank my brilliant beta [info]attempt_unique enough – thank you SO MUCH for cheerleading, for being there when things were down to the wire, and for just generally being awesome. Also, a hearty helping of gratitude for my wonderful [info]brimtoast, who checked this fic over for unwanted tense shenangians and typos.

“Go on, do it,” Ray says, and closes his eyes and braces himself for the blow. But he should have fucking known better, because a couple beats pass and it still doesn’t come, and it _still_ doesn’t come. He opens his eyes and turns around, glaring.

Nate stares back at him, looking more bewildered than Ray’s ever seen him.

“Person, I have to admit, I’m having trouble following your logic. What, exactly, do you think me hitting you with the butt of my gun will accomplish?”

Ray clutches at his own head, pulling at his hair in exasperation – and hey, he’d always thought Sister Annette had been exaggerating when she shouted ‘You make me want to pull my hair out!’ at him after he’d innocently disabled one of the nun’s cars and reassembled it into a hoverbike. Turns out that’s an actual thing.

“Look, my logic is good, it’s great, I’m good at wacky tactics and you know it, or Brad wouldn’t have given me a toon, and normally I’d explain and break it all down for you, but there’s not fucking time. Just hit me and I’ll explain after.”

But then Nate gets that stubborn look Ray knew all too well from the Battle Room, the look when the adults fucked them over, threw them at army after army in increasingly impossible configurations, and Ray knows he isn’t backing down until he gets an answer. Goddammit. Nate might be the best army commander on the station (besides Brad, obviously), but sometimes he can be such an annoying little shit.

“Okay. Okay, so. Brad Iced Casey Kasem,” he says finally, willing Nate to understand so they can just get _on_ with this already.

Nate closes his eyes briefly, and then opens them again, and they’re shining and bright green. “I still don’t understand what this has to do with you wanting me to beat you up.”

Ray goes past wanting to pull out his own hair to wanting to scream. God, Nate doesn’t understand, hasn’t _seen_ , and once more Ray wants to murder the Bugger-buggering bastards that run this godforsaken operation, who had seen fit for whatever unfathomable cock-up of a reason to split up Bravo Army. Nate’s still commander of Bravo, but in name only: they’d swapped out all the members aside from Nate, left Nate with only total wet-behind-ear-launchies who still get nauseous in zero-G to work with.

And Brad was running a new army, Tango Army – _Nate’s_ army – without him. Some bullshit about wanting to make sure Brad could handle full command, and to make sure that Nate’s success wasn’t just a fluke from him lucking out and having had the best kids on the station assigned to his army.

Bravo’s climbing up the standings now (after a short stint at the very bottom), but Tango’s been on top since it was first created and remains undefeated, even if it is being run by the youngest commander in Battle School history.

And now Brad’s alone in his room, staring at the ceiling, still probably soaked from that fucking shower, all because Godfather apparently thinks the only way to mold a successful commander is to fucking torture them, fuck with their heads and take away every shred of self-respect they have. Because that makes tons of fucking sense. And now they’ve pushed too hard, and Brad’s just… gone. Has checked out completely. Normally Ray can read Brad easy as breathing, but this time, he can’t. Ray can guess, but he doesn’t know, so he’s taking a giant leap of faith and doing something stupid and crazy and hoping for the best.

Or he _would_ be, but Nate’s not cooperating.

“It’s too much,” Ray manages to get out, after doing a lot more hair-pulling, practically dancing in place with impatience. “He’s – I don’t think it _matters_ that he knows it’s not his fault. A kid’s dead because Brad killed him with his bare hands.” And shit, he’s crying, he’s crying in front of Nate fucking Fick, probably the biggest badass he knows outside Brad. “He’s fucking gone, dude, you don’t even know how bad it is. He didn’t even show up for the battle we had scheduled this morning.”

“Jesus,” Nate whispers, because they both know Brad is a competitive son of a bitch who never gives less than his all, who takes pride in being the best. Brad sitting out a battle… Ray watches Nate process this information as he stares at the flash gun in his hands. And finally, the penny drops. “Oh. That’s… certainly thinking outside the box, Ray.”

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” Ray jokes, trying to keep his voice steady, scrubbing at his face. “So you’ll do it?”

Nate studies him for a moment. “I’ll do it. It might even help. But he won’t thank you for lying to him, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, he can hate me later,” Ray says, and tries not to let how sick he feels show on his face.

Nate cocks his head, then nods. “Okay. Turn around – I’m not hitting you in the head. Brain damage would be going a bit too far in the name of verisimilitude, and besides, this’ll work better if the hit’s on your back.”

Fucking Nate, always one-upping him. It’s immediately apparent that he’s right, though, so Ray turns around, closing his eyes.

“Make it look real,” he whispers, bracing himself, and then the blow comes, right on top of his shoulder blade. He falls to his knees, eyes wide at the shock of it. It takes him a second to get enough air to curse. “Christ, fucking bug-fucking shit, ow ow _ow_.” He leans his forehead against the cool wall for a moment, cursing in a steady stream until the pain dulls down to something manageable, and when he finally straightens, Nate looks a combination of amused and annoyed and worried.

“Didn’t really think that one through, did you, Person?” he says, reaching over and giving Ray a hand up. “Don’t tense up, it’ll hurt worse.”

“ _You_ don’t tense up,” Ray grits out, but Nate has a point, as usual, so he tries to relax his muscles a bit. And okay, yeah, maybe he hadn’t really thought about how faking an attack from Encino Man and his thugs would involve him feeling the not-fake _pain_ , but whatever, it’s over, and Ray would totally suffer a thousand times worse if he had to. He pulls his shirt back off, wincing as he moves. “What do you think? Does it look good?” He contorts himself, ignoring the bone-deep throb of protest, trying to see his own back.

Nate regards him with a professional eye. “Looks like someone came at you from behind and wasn’t pulling their punches, yes.”

“Okay,” Ray says, and doesn’t think about what will happen if this doesn’t work, if Brad doesn’t hear him or doesn’t care. “Okay. I’ll give it an hour or two to look less fresh.”

He guesses he looks pretty upset, though, because Nate pauses on his way out the door, studying him, and then says suddenly, “Don’t worry. It’s a good plan, Ray.” And then holy Christ, he’s pulling Ray into an actual _hug_ , and it’s stupidly making him want to cry again. Ray’s a touchy-feely person, likes invading personal space and climbing in laps and being generally obnoxious and hogging everyone else’s body warmth – he’s small, after all, has no body fat, it’s just being efficient, Walt, really.

But Nate’s really, really not the type for that sort of thing, is too serious and somehow dignified, even when he’s being playful. But he’s hugging Ray now, and it’s breaking Ray’s brain a little.

Then he lets go, transmogrifying back into a cool professional badass again. Like a magic trick. “I’ll let Poke and Lilley know that they saw the whole ambush go down. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Ray says, voice wobbling a little, and then Nate is gone, and it’s just Ray and the bathroom stalls and sinks. He stumbles over to one of the faucets and wets his shirt with cool water, dabbing it over his shoulder and trying to bring the redness down a bit.

It’s funny. Ray used to hate Nate with the burning passion of a thousand fiery suns, but that was years ago. Now, outside of Brad, there’s no one he trusts or respects more.

When he’d first met Nate, though, he’d been predisposed to loathe him, mostly on account of how he was obnoxiously perfect, but maybe a smidge also because he’d stolen Ray’s best friend. Brad had been advanced out of their launchy group before Ray, mostly because Ray dicked around in class – Ray was brilliant, according to Sister Annette, who alternately had seemed to want to worship him or strangle him, but he had no drive.

But then Brad, who had enough drive for twenty Rays, had gone and excelled at fucking everything and gotten himself placed in Nate’s army. Brad had still met Ray for meals, for evening games of chess, and he’d even let Ray watch in on Nate’s unofficial practice sessions, ignoring the taunts from his fellow soldiers about letting a runt like Ray near a gun.

But it wasn’t the same. Brad had talked about Nate all the fucking time, with goddamned hearts and stars in his eyes, which had pretty much incited Ray into being the biggest dickrag of all time. Not his finest moments. He’d basically spent two months bitching, and casting aspersions on Nate’s parentage, and generally insinuating that Nate sucked exocock for money until Brad had finally snapped.

“Why are you even fucking here?”

“What the fuck are you talking about. I’m here for the same reason you are – ‘cause I’m a fucking genius.”

“For once in your life, actually use your brain. Why do you think they’re pushing us so hard, advancing so many little kids so quickly? The next war’s coming, and Earth’s not ready–”

“Aw, that’s _adorable_. You and Fick gonna save the world, huh? Didn’t know idealism was communicable through semen. Whoa, what the fuck, Brad, let me the fuck go!”

“Would you shut up for five fucking seconds and actually listen? Why are you here if you don’t goddamn care about anything?”

“I care about _you_!”

“Then why aren’t you _with_ me?"

And then they’d both gone red and speechless, wide-eyed, while Ray had wanted to stuff a dirty jock down his own stupid throat, but it’d been the truth. Sister Annette and the other nuns had been nice enough, but they hadn’t really gotten Ray, not really. Thought he was crazy smart and also just plain crazy, when truth was, Ray had just always been so _bored_.

Brad was the first person that had ever listened when he talked, kept up with his leaps of logic. And, okay, it sounded childish, but Brad was the first person that he’d ever gotten to play with, who had laughed at his jokes and helped him hack the main computer and play ‘Love is a Battlefield’ through all the Battle Room speakers.

Ray didn’t care about the Battle School, about the machinations of the teachers, or the world at all, really. Let the Buggers have it in a couple decades – the world had never done much for Ray. No one had cared about a starving homeless kid with a dead mother and a smart mouth, not until he’d been able to do something for them, so why should he care about the rest of the world? He had food, and shelter, and entertainment in the form of a massive space station to fuck with and a friend to do it with.

But he cared about Brad. And Brad cared about the world, and the war, and Nate fuckin’ Fick’s opinion, so after Ray and Brad had stared at each other, both of them blushing and shuffling their feet for a few silent minutes, Ray had spit out, “Fine. Give me three weeks.”

Two weeks later, he’d aced all the tests, passed his physical examinations, and then broken in to Godfather’s personal quarters and delivered a rousing speech about how much he wanted to get in the fight and save the world, rah rah. He was summarily deposited in the quarters of Tango Army with a frankly sort of boring lecture about how he had to respect the school’s security system or they’d eject him into deep space without a suit.

When Tango Army had trooped in, fresh from their last battle, and Brad had seen Ray, sitting on one of the bunks and kicking his feet diffidently, he’d fucking _glowed_.

And it turned out that Nate was a cool guy, and so Ray’d stopped bitching about him so much. And maybe Brad likes Nate better than Ray and goes all gooey-eyed over his strategic brilliance and nobility and ideals and what the fuck ever, but it’s Ray that makes Brad laugh until he snorts out his milk at lunch, and Ray that’s at Brad’s right hand, and Ray that distracts Brad when he’s angsting all over the place about being a good enough Commander. Or whether he should do something about Poke and his girl, who are fraternizing all over the place and thus possibly paying less than a hundred percent attention to training, or whether he’s pushing Trombley hard enough and getting him up to his full potential, blah blah, fucking blah. Brad looks like he _should_ be living up to his Iceman nickname, but he’s actually a big fucking marshmallow.

And that’s even without going into all the drama over his break-up with one of the lieutenants that got transferred to another army a year back who immediately began fucking her new commander – who happened to be one of Brad’s former teammates. Seriously, do not get Ray started on that shitstorm.

Then the battles started getting more intense, and if Ray had thought the teachers were fucking with them and being manipulative dickfaces before, he got thoroughly schooled. Two, three battles a day, and then they fucking shipped off Nate and put Brad in charge. Brad started looking stressed and tired, stopped sleeping, got huge fucking circles under his eyes.

But if there’s one thing Ray’s the best at, even if he’s not noble or good at long-term strategy or making nice with the teachers, it’s at being distracting and keeping Brad laughing, even when he’s exhausted enough to pass out face-first in his breakfast.

But no jokes or verbal diarrhea or stupid acrobatics in zero-G while singing showtunes will fix what’s just happened.

A kid is dead. Three of the Shark Army boys had been dicking around Brad for months. They’d started off with a vendetta against Nate for his perfect record and Golden Boy status, but then Brad’d been advanced. Brad, a kid five years younger than any other army commander, and he’d gone on wiping the floor with the lot of them, even as the adults started making the battles harder and harder, stacked further and further against Tango.

The teachers had sneered at Shark Army, lowest in the standings, and then set up a battle where it was obvious that they wanted Shark humiliated. Why, neither Brad or Ray could understand, but apparently it was because they thought Brad hadn’t been fucked in the head enough before. Shit got _really_ bad after that. Tango kids kept getting thrashed in the halls, whenever they were out of sight of the teachers, but Brad seemed unconcerned.

“Teachers won’t let it escalate too far,” he’d said. “We’ve got more important things to worry about.”

“You can’t count on the adults,” Poke had said skeptically. “They’ll let it go far as they fucking think it can go,” and Ray had emphatically agreed, and so had Walt and Lilley and even stupid fucking Trombley, but did Brad listen? No, he went off alone to shower, and now a kid is dead because he thought he and his two friends were enough for one naked Brad Colbert. And the dumb fuck hadn’t even realized he’d been manipulated, that he was just a pawn in the great game of Making Commanders and Winning the War.

Ray’s best fucking friend killed another kid, and Brad can’t cope with it, cares too much and too deeply, so Ray has to remake the world into something that Brad _can_ cope with. Is going to lie to do it, be worse than the fucking teachers because for once, he’s letting them manipulate him. He knows they’re watching all this, knows they’re hoping he’ll fix the fucking mistakes they made, and he will. He hopes he will, because he can’t stand the idea of losing Brad.

Brad trusts Ray, trusts him totally and completely, and Ray’s a dirty, selfish, rotten coward.

Half an hour passes with him thinking dark thoughts at himself, nauseous with worry as he examines himself in the mirror and judges the darkening bruise –already turning a deep purplish black, which is sickly fascinating. And then he can’t put it off any longer. The redness of Nate’s blow has faded. He could have gotten this bruise this morning, not half an hour ago, and that’s good enough.

The rest of Tango Army is still milling around outside Brad’s private room where Ray had left them, after listening to Poke rant desperately at Brad about the Iceman letting them down, Walt helplessly trying to coax a response from him, even Trombley coming to Brad’s door and offering confused condolences, because he doesn’t understand why killing that asshole was a big deal, but he guesses it was for Brad, but now there’s a battle going on and shooting some motherfuckers will make Brad feel better, right?

Ray had watched all that and hadn’t said anything, which was pretty fucking momentous for him. Ray’s always got something to say – except, apparently, on the one occasion he really, really fucking needs to say something.

And finally Ray had had to leave, had gone pacing around the different levels of the space station until he’d seen Nate’s army leaving the Battle Room. Nate was still carrying his gun and looking uncharacteristically fierce and furious, angry the same way all the kids are in the wake of Kasem’s death, and Ray had had the epiphany he’d been waiting for and dragged a confused Nate off to a bathroom and begged him to pistolwhip Ray, just a little.

Now it’s showtime.

Apparently Tango Army’s given up on trying to coax Brad back from catatonia. A couple of them brighten when they spot Ray approaching, but Ray doesn’t say anything to any of them, just eases himself inside Brad’s quarters and closes the door behind him.

Brad’s still lying in the same position he’d been an hour ago, is still naked from the shower and staring up at the ceiling, hair dried weirdly flat. He hasn’t moved at all.

Brad doesn’t know it, but he’s still counting on his Ray Ray to have his six, just like always, and goddammit, Ray damn well does. He’s whipped up a plan, a _good_ fucking plan, and carried out phase one.

Now it’s time to carry out phase two, except he can’t seem to open his stupid mouth. He’s always been good at bullshitting, at flying by the seat of his jumpsuit, but this time it matters, matters more than it ever has in his whole fucking life

This has to go perfectly, because Ray’s only got one shot, here, and fuck, he’s probably been standing in the doorway staring long enough as it is. If Brad’s even registered his presence. Which is just so fucked up – Brad’s always lecturing Ray about his situational awareness, about keeping his senses sharp, and Ray can’t deal any longer with the dumb, mute version of his best friend.

Fuck over-thinking shit – that’s Brad’s job, and it’s about damned time he wake back up and start doing it.

“You done feeling fucking sorry for yourself?” Ray says brightly, and launches himself out of the doorway and into the room, loud as he knows how to be, manic and grinning. “Because it’s getting pretty fucking old and I’ve got better things to do with my time than sit around here like the fucking grumpy dwarf from Snow White, waiting for your prince to come. You know the fucking Miss Earth contest’s starting next week, and I still haven’t hacked the mainframe enough to get us a live feed.”

Brad doesn’t respond, so Ray sits on him. This also fails to produces a response, so Ray leans down and raspberries Brad’s cheek. Brad blinks. Encouraged, Ray bounces a little on Brad’s stomach, and Brad frowns and actually _looks_ at him. Hallelujah, praise Jesus. Ray is in fact the most annoying fuck in this solar system; he wonders if Command will give him a medal.

“Oh, there’s someone still in there after all. Good, ‘cause you need to fucking hear what I’ve got to say.”

Brad closes his eyes, turns his head away, and that shit’s just not _on_. Ray gets his best shit-eating grin on and jabs Brad in the chest, hard, and he knows Brad can feel it because he winces, just a bit.

“Don’t worry, princess, I’m sure you’ve already heard plenty of shit about the war effort, and the absolute necessity of your contribution, but I hope you know I’m not that predictable, because I’ve got something new to say: I’m glad you killed that motherfucker.”

Brad’s whole body goes taut. And part of Ray knows that if he wasn’t so selfish, he’d let Brad go, let Brad get shipped back to Earth to snap out of it, or to just stay peacefully silent for the rest of his days.

But Ray is that selfish, so it’s a moot point. Besides, Brad’s a warrior. And he hates his fucking white-bread family and creepy angry older siblings anyway. If Ray lies to himself, he can believe he’s doing Brad a favor.

“And you know what, if I had the body of an Aryan godchild like you do, I’dve fucking taken out that shitwagon and all the dingleberries he rides with myself. But I’m the fucking runt, and not that I can’t take care of myself, but when those fuckers got me alone, I sure as shit didn’t have all the advantages you rode into battle with. It’s getting pretty fucking offensive watching you pout about it like a goddamned civilian who got dumped at prom.”

Brad’s eyes had opened back up as Ray spoke, but it’s still a glorious, glorious shock when he actually _says_ something.

“They got you alone,” he states, and he’s looking at Ray, processing even though his face is still pretty blank. His voice is raspy, hoarse, and it sounds like fucking aural gold, like victory and hugs and sunshine and a decent meal after two months of starving on the streets. “When?”

“This morning,” Ray shrugs, then winces, and that’s not even a front, because motherfucker, Nate really had got him good. “Lucky Lilley and Poke came along when they did, or I’d have got it worse.”

Brad sits up, and now he’s scowling. Ray feels almost faint with relief. It’s worked. It fucking worked. Ray had known Brad cared about him – but some dark little twisted sordid part of him is glad, glad of the confirmation.

“Show me,” Brad snarls, and Ray twists, not suppressing the hiss of pain as he contorts himself, lifting his shirt.

Brad swears, and lifts a hand, traces the edges of the bruise. His touch is cool, soothing.

“I should have killed all three of them,” he says, voice deadly calm, and Ray inwardly cheers.

“Fucking right, you should have. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, homes, they wouldn’t have stopped for anything less than one of them dying. They’d have come after all of us in Tango Army eventually, with unfair fucking odds, and if someone in this equation had to die, I’m glad it wasn’t me. Or hell, I’m even glad it wasn’t Trombley.”

He turns back around and lets his shirt fall back into place. Or, well, it _would_ have fallen back into place, but Brad’s still got his hand on Ray’s back, carefully holding on.

“No one will fuck with you or anyone else again,” he says, and there’s still pain in his eyes, still something bleak and horrified, but that’s okay, he can come back from that. He’s in there. He’s talking. Ray will take it. But he’s not done yet, not quite.

“Hopefully Godfather will stop fucking waving a red flag with our faces on it at Shark Army, now. Or any other army,” he says nonchalantly. “Crazy asshole, getting kids killed for his creepy-ass power games. Soon as we win this fucking war and get back to Earth, I’m siccing Child Services on him, you fucking watch me.” _You’re not to blame, it’s not your fault, it’s theirs, it’s not your_ fault _, dammit_.

“I’ll cosign it,” Brad says, voice still frosty and deadly, and then he stretches, wincing as he moves long-still muscles. Then his eyes narrow. “Ray. You’re on top of me. Why are you on top of me?”

“Oh god, you’re naked,” Ray realizes out loud, mortified that somehow this never occurred to him during the planning session _or_ the grand speech portion of the evening, and Brad fucking _laughs_ at him. “I mean, uh. I was overcome by your beauty, what can I say?” He pauses thoughtfully, stroking his chin. “And also by how fucking annoying you were being.”

“As you say, I am an Aryan godchild,” Brad agrees, and his hand is _still_ on Ray’s back, warmer now, rubbing in small soothing circles. It hurts, but it’s an oddly good hurt, and Ray leans into the touch, likes the way the pain deepens slightly – confirmation that his stupid, ridiculous ploy worked. Ray really is a fucking genius sometimes. “Can’t blame me for not noticing, because you, on the other hand, are a runt. A pygmy. It’s like being tackled by a feather.”

“Shut up,” Ray retorts automatically. “My growth spurt will be here any fucking day now.”

“Mm. Keep telling yourself that,” Brad says, and then he’s sitting up, and oh sweet starfucking _lord_ , he is naked and _Ray is in his lap_ , and Ray is starting to suspect that the whole adoration/possessiveness thing he’s had going on for the past couple years has maybe had less than noble underpinnings, because his mouth has gone totally dry.

And of course, that’s when Walt sticks his head in the room. He takes in the scene and his eyes go _huge_.

“Uh,” Ray says, but Brad just raises an eyebrow and says, “What is it, Hasser?”

“Just, um. We got another battle assignment, going down in five minutes.”

Brad nods perfunctorily, as though he hadn’t totally ignored the assignment they’d gotten six hours earlier. “Ray, off.”

Ray scrambles to his feet, not looking over when Brad stands, tall and broader than any sixteen-year-old should be. Unlike Ray, who is ridiculous and scrawny and even shorter than most of the new recruits, who are only eight-fucking-years old. Unfair.

Brad dresses quickly, and if his hands are still a little shaky, well, whatever. Ray’s not complaining. And judging by the whoops when they finally leave his room, neither are any of their men. They’re all crowded around the door, not even trying to hide the fact that they were eavesdropping.

Poke slaps Brad on the back, relief bright on his face.

“You really had us worried, dog,” he says, and Brad arches an eyebrow. “Battle this morning without you was a fucking _rout_.” Less because Poke and Ray and the other toon commanders couldn’t cope, and more because they were fucking distracted by their leader being goddamned catatonic, but Poke has a point.

“And here I thought you infants could shit without me wiping your asses every five seconds,” Brad retorts, and then looks around. “What are you dumbfucks still doing here? Battle room in three. Let’s see some fucking hustle.”

He strides off towards his bunk and starts dressing.

“Iceman’s back,” Poke says, grinning from ear to ear.

“Hoo fucking rah,” Ray agrees weakly, and goes to bang his head against a wall for a minute, while he's still got time.

***

Obviously, they win the battle. And all the next ones, too – well, except for the one against Nate, but that'd been a stalemate anyway, so it doesn't count. With both Brad and Nate at the helm, Ray knows they’ll eventually win the war. It might fuck them up a bit in the process – hell, every kid in Battle School’s already fucked in the head, and if the taxpayers back home complain about the cost of training them, wait ‘til they get a load of the therapy bills – but they will win.

Nate, Nate Ray figures will be all right in the end. He’s got plans, is always ranting about the inefficiency of the global political system, and it’s pretty much set in stone that he’s going to rule the world some day. Nate’s got goals. But Ray doesn’t think Brad’ll know what to _do_ with Earth after it’s been saved, if he’ll be able to cope with the pace of standard, normal, boring living. He doesn’t have a goal outside the war like Nate does, and he’s been running at top speed his whole life, training and pushing himself to the limit.

Ray figures, Brad stays on the planet, there’s a strong chance he’ll turn into a supervillain just to keep himself busy. And then Nate will fight him; it’ll be a mess. Best to just nip that in the bud and keep on the move.

So basically, when Brad fucks off after the war’s over and becomes a space explorer or whatever, as he will inevitably do once Ray explains the logic to him, Ray’s coming with. Because, shit. He figures at some point, when all his time and energy aren’t being eaten up with fucking drills and training and maneuvers and exercise and lessons and all the rest of the bullshit they put them through in this hellhole of a school, he’s going to actually develop a healthy sex drive, not just occasionally jerk off and collapse into a coma afterwards. And when that happens, he wants to be wherever Brad is. Just in case.

And even if Brad’s not interested, well. Ray could always fuck an alien, he supposes.

“Hey, hey, Brad. Brad. Brad Brad Brad Brad Brad.”

“ _What_ ,” Brad says, looking over the top of his datapad, where he’s typing away furiously on his touchpad. Ray’s supposed to be catching up on Mohist military histories himself, but he’s decided to boycott learning for the next couple days. Fuck studying; he’ll just cheat off Brad. Instead he’s lounging next to Brad’s on the bed, refreshing his skills of technical reconnaissance by using his own pad to hack into Trombley’s computer and send him flirty messages from Satan.

“You think Buggers are any good in bed?” he asks, looking away from his very important work, making his eyes go large and dewy.

Brad blinks, then says blandly, “I’d ask your mom, but she’s dead,” then goes back to work.

“Oh, Bradley, it’s little moments like this that make it all worthwhile,” Ray coos drippily, and pillows his head on his arms for a moment thoughtfully. Maybe he can code a virus that will flash hearts and pentagrams on any computer screen that detects Trombley’s suit sensor nearby. Yeah, he totally can.

Brad looks up again and smiles, and it’s not one of his usual flavors, sarcastic or amused or angry, but something softer.

“When you’re right, you’re right, Ray,” he says, and then gets a weird look on his face, raises a hand, hesitates, and then puts it on Ray’s back, just below the bruise.

It’s been a few weeks since Nate thumped Ray a good one on the back, and the bruise has faded to a sickly green. Brad keeps checking on it, though, making sure Ray has cold compresses and advil. It’s cute, in a mother-hen sort of way, except when Brad starts ranting about myositis ossificans and freaking Ray’s shit out. But the likelihood of that happening has gone _way down_ , so Ray’s not quite as nauseated about it any more.

Suddenly, Brad tosses aside his pad and it lands with a clatter. Ray looks up, eyes wide, and then hisses when Brad presses down on the bruise, just hard enough to remind Ray it’s still there, still sore.

“So. Were you ever going to tell me?” Brad asks mildly, and Ray’s mind goes totally blank.

“No,” he stutters out automatically. “How did you – did Nate –”

“Godfather told me,” Brad says, and his hand goes back to petting Ray, his face one of polite curiosity. “He’s got the whole thing on vid. Showed it to me.” Ray tries to sit up, but Brad presses him back down into the bed, smiling, and for the second time in years, Ray cannot read him at all.

“I’m – fuck, Brad, I’m sorry,” Ray says, screwing his eyes shut. “I just, I didn’t know what to do, and you were—”

“I understand why you did it. And I know you won’t do it again. But you should have told me. At some point, anyway.”

 _I didn’t want to lose you._ “Yeah, well. I’m a coward like that.”

Brad regards him thoughtfully. “You know why Godfather told me?”

“Because he hates me.” Ray pauses for a moment, then concedes, “And also maybe because I filled his quarters with fire-retardant foam.” Ray’d been a little angry after shit went down, so a week after Casem’d died, he’d gotten at least a mild form of revenge. Better than nothing.

Brad snerks, and then his face smoothes out again. “That may have been a factor,” he allows. “But no.”

He rolls over onto his side and puts his head on his hand. He’s, uh, really _really_ close, and staring in Ray’s eyes, and Ray’s about to have a major panic attack, here.

“Nate and I are shipping out tomorrow,” he says suddenly, watching Ray’s face, which Ray strongly suspects has just fallen pretty fucking far. “I told him I wouldn’t go without you. He… tried to disabuse me of the notion. Said he knew how much I prized honesty. He told me I couldn’t trust you, and that that’s not a good quality for a second-in-command. That’s when he showed me the video. You manipulated me. You’re a good liar; I’d never have guessed.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Brad,” Ray manages to get out, and his heart is doing not-good, probably unhealthy things in his chest, alien-chestburster-style.

“But I do trust you. Then he said you don’t follow orders well,” Brad continues thoughtfully. “You don’t listen, you’re frivolous and reckless and not suited for Command School.” He pauses, then continues, and his hand goes back on Ray’s back. “I told him I was aware of that.”

“Ouch,” Ray says weakly, but he’s smiling hugely. Brad still trusts him.

“And I told him that I don’t care. I want you there.” Brad leans forward and brushes his lips over Ray’s, and Ray’s heart has a fucking seizure. “I wouldn’t go without you, and Nate wouldn’t go without me. So we’re shipping out tomorrow,” he finishes, leaning back, face the definition of smug. Then he bites his lip, looking hesitant for a moment. “If you want to go.”

“Wait, go back to the kissing,” Ray says frantically, and struggles to get upright, and Brad laughs, loud and bright.

“We’re leaving at oh dark hundred, Ray,” he says fondly, and then gives in to Ray’s probably pretty excellent puppy eyes and presses his mouth to the corner of Ray’s. “You should get some sleep.”

“Fuck you, I should get some sex!” But he is tired, and holy shit, he is so _not_ ready for Command School, what the _hell_. He really needs to catch up on those fucking military histories now. He scrabbles for his pad again, torn between ripping at Brad’s clothes and attempting to speed-read like mad.

“Love you too, asshole,” Brad says, and flops on top of him, utterly pinning him to the bed. Ray’s pad falls to the floor with a loud crash, and he wiggles and complains furiously before giving in. Brad is a fucking tank, and he’s way too used to ignore Ray’s rants by now, the bastard.

“Ray,” Brad says suddenly, after Ray’s gone dozy and warm. “Don’t ever hurt yourself like that again. Not for me.”

Ray would do a thousand worse things for Brad in a heartbeat; he’s not alone in feeling this way, he knows. He knows the other boys worship Brad, too. But not like this. And they’re not in his bed, and tomorrow, they won’t be on the ship heading out to Saturn, to the base there.

But Brad’s voice has steel in is, and he’s raised his head again and is glaring at Ray.

“Say it.”

One more lie, then, and Ray promises himself it’s the last one. “Sure thing, homes,” he says, smiling wide enough that his cheeks hurt. “No sweat.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(Podfic of) This is Your Wakeup Call by Novembersmith](https://archiveofourown.org/works/744352) by [chemm80](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemm80/pseuds/chemm80)




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